


Table Number 7

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Partnership, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 06:38:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10611306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: The agents go undercover in a swanky restaurant to catch a few baddies.





	

 

 

 

It was his first day on this particular job, dressed in a white tee-shirt, dark pants along with a stained white apron wrapped around his waist. He hefted a tub of dishes as he bussed the tables in the small, exclusive French-style bistro that seemed to attract a very special clientele.

He was busboy and dishwasher or whatever else was needed, but more importantly, he was the backup along with another agent named Leary, who was disguised as a waiter.

 

Napoleon had, as usual, garnered a more cushy position as maitre di, wearing a nice suit and controlled which customer sat where. The clients who were of interest to the agents were seated at certain tables that were conveniently bugged, allowing headquarters to listen in on the conversations They in turn would alert the Americans and the Russian to apprehend anyone who should be brought to headquarters to be detained for questioning.

Illya walked past his partner, whispering out of the side of him mouth in complaint. "Next time we do this sort of sting operation, I get to play the host. I think I am getting dish pan hands..."

_"C'est la vie_ ," Napoleon answered, watching as his partner responded with his usual rolling of the eyes.

Napoleon tried not to snicker as he turned his attention to another customer who had just walked in and surveyed the group of well-dressed men who stood behind him. The fellow with just a bit of grey showing in his dark temples had an air of authority about him, and was well dressed in an expensive dark blue double-breasted Italian suit. For a moment Napoleon admired his very discerning taste in clothing.

" _Bonsoir_. Table for four  _Messieurs_ ," he put on a heavy French accent.

"Where is Louis?" The man asked suspiciously.

"He called in sick. I am François, his cousin. "Poor man has a terrible case of the flu."

Their leader nodded his acceptance, saying nothing more, much to Solo's relief.

"This way please." Napoleon led them to a back table, seating them and handing each of them menus.

"The Escargot come highly recommended, as well as the Boeuf Bourguignon. The Brandied Roast Goose roasted with seasonings and served with a Cognac sauce is sublime."

He left them, returning to his podium, and spoke softly into a microphone hidden under his lapel.

"Guests at number seven,' he whispered.

Leary came out and took their orders, and as the food arrived. Illya appeared, clearing off the tables around them, as it was late, while Solo watched and waited. The restaurant slowly emptied, leaving the four men still at number seven.

"Anything?" He whispered again to his lapel.

"Sounds like we have them Napoleon, " a voice in his earpiece spoke. "They're talking about a drop off at...the New York Public library." There was a pause, "Two of them are to receive a package and make a ten thousand dollar payment."

"What is the package?" Illya's voice came through the earpiece along with a strange gurgling sound.

"Didn't say..." Security responded."What was that noise?"

"It was my stomach, though I am back in the kitchen there has been no time to eat, "the Russian apologized.

"Mr. Kuryakin, deal with your stomach later. I want you, Mr. Solo and Mr. Leary to take them," the voice of Alexander Waverly interjected.

Not another word was said, and Napoleon casually walked to the front door, locking it and turning over a small sign indicating the restaurant was now closed.

Illya appeared from the kitchen, as did Leary and together the three of them surrounded table number 7.

Napoleon spoke very calmly to them. "I'm sorry to interrupt gentlemen, but we are closed for the evening now and I have to tell you it's time to go,"

They stared back at him, with their expressions ranging from indignation to annoyance.

"Go with  _us_ , that is,"the Russian clarified.

One of them went for his weapon under his jacket.

"I would not do that if I were you," Illya added, holding up his Special along with Solo and Leary.

Napoleon flashed his gold UNCLE identification card and watched as four pairs of shoulders slumped in surrender.

"I'm afraid the jig is up gents," Leary got his two cents worth in. "So hands up boys."

The men were handcuffed and an extraction team arrived, taking them to headquarters.

As the three agents changed to their own clothes in the back, Napoleon looked at Leary, studying him.

"What was with that  _'jig is up_ ' remark," he asked. "I think you've been watching too much Elliott Ness on television."

"Actually that's an old saying my dad used to use; he was a New York City detective, and we are Irish you know. So get it... 'jig?" He smiled.

"Yes I get it, "Solo nodded, "Hey Leary, learn any interrogation techniques from your father?" He asked, straightening his tie, as he'd finished dressing.

"Plenty, though I wouldn't go so far as to use a billy club...I'm sure Waverly wouldn't like that too much."

"True true," Napoleon grinned, "When we want to terrorize a detainee, we unleash Illya on him. Speaking of my partner, have you seen him? " Solo looked around the room."He seems to have disappeared."

Napoleon peeked out from the kitchen, spying his partner sitting at a table, eating a steaming plateful of  _Ratatouille_ , a traditional French Provençal stewed vegetable dish.

"Finally got to eat buddy? Have enough for two more?" Solo asked.

"Mine," the Russian said, spearing another mouthful and sliding his plate closer to himself.

"Greedy," Solo quipped.

"Nyet...hungry. Get your own," Illya's face punctuated his determination. "Now if you both will excuse me?" He picked up his glass of  _Côtes du Rhône_ , a southern Rhone wine and took a sip with a sigh of satisfaction.

His hunger had made him crabby and Illya suddenly realized his rudeness. "Here," he said apologetically, "try the wine, it is quite nice. The flavor is complex, with raspberry, cherry, blueberry and layered spices."

He poured a glass each for Napoleon, and Leary, and after tasting it, both men nodded their approval.

"I'll be right back," Leary said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with more  _Ratatouille_ , enough for the three of them, as Illya was ready for a second helping.

"Here's to a satisfying ending to a successful operation," Napoleon raised his glass.

"Here is to table number 7," Leary added.

_"Prost,_ " Illya offered a toast, between mouthfuls.

 

 


End file.
